Fountain, Flower, Sword by Kenaz

Chapter 7 - Ecthelion

The metallic rattle of Ecthelion’s hauberk hitting the ground rang shrill in the confines of his tent. He rolled his shoulders up and back, relieved to be free of its weight.  His shirt, sweat-damp and stained, clung to his chest, and it stank, but that was hardly foremost of his concerns. When he closed his eyes, he could still see the imprint of flames on his eyelids, the living fire of Morgoth’s spawn as it raised its burning lash.

Gothmog, you will answer to me yet! Your life is forfeit, creature of Darkness! He had bellowed those words, both threat and promise, his own impetuous oath, even as he had watched Fingon fall. He had not even realized he was speaking until the sound of his own voice reverberated in his ears. The vehemence of the proclamation had unnerved him, even as they drove him onward.

But evil had taken the day, vows of vengeance or no. Fingon was dead, and the doughty Azaghâl of Belegost, and Maedhros had been betrayed from within at a devastating cost to them all. Glorfindel had fallen back with Turgon, and his own flank had narrowly avoided being driven into the fens, the Men of Dor-lómin bringing up the rear. Of Elemmakil, there had been no sign. He could not allow himself to think on that now. He rubbed at the ache in his neck that would not subside, returned to his maps, and poured himself a cup of small-ale to wash away the taste of iron and ash.

When his sentries announced a messenger, he granted entry without looking up from his work. It was only after a moment of silence had passed that he irritably raised his head to find out what stayed the man from speaking. When he saw Elemmakil standing before him, his face taut and weary, it was he who found himself at a loss for words.

“My lord,” Elemmakil stammered, his voice ragged, “my captain bade me come here and deliver this message to you.”  He held out a paper closed with Glorfindel’s familiar seal.

“Elemmakil...”  His voice trailed off. Relief had rendered him dumb. “Sit. Please.”

Elemmakil shook his head.  “I am on my captain’s errand, my lord. I will rest when I have completed his task.”

You will be the death of me, Ecthelion thought, his weary heart moved to breaking at the mere sight of this stalwart and loyal young man. He took the message and broke the seal.

Ehtelë, it began.

I had not set out to put these words to paper, yet now I fear I write them too late. Our losses this day spur my hand to set these lines lest words which must be heard go unspoken.

Too long have you held tight to your grief. Too long have you set yourself apart. If it be not my heart which consoles you, let it be another’s-- so long as you are consoled, I cannot bring myself to despise it.

I have kept him as far from harm’s way as I can, and will continue to do so inasmuch as I am able. He is a boy no more, Ehtelë. His sword has been tempered in blood and fire, as was mine, as was your own.

The night is short, and it is not for us to know what will happen on the morrow, but I will not march into the fray with any regrets in my heart, and you should not, either. Do not turn him, nor what he offers, aside.  

Do this for me. Promise me.

Findë.

Ecthelion read and reread it, his heart hammering in his chest.  Unbidden tears pricked at his eyes, but did not spill.  He looked up at Elemmakil, and something in his face must have given him away, for Elemmakil moved suddenly toward him with an expression of great distress.

“Ecthelion—my lord—what is it?”

Ecthelion shook his head. His throat had gone too tight to speak. He took Elemmakil’s face in his hands, memorized every line, every plane. His jaw was strong and stubbornly set; his grey eyes were fever-bright with need and longing, and darkly ringed with the toll of battle.  Glorfindel was right; Elemmakil was a boy no more.

“Are you well?” Elemmakil asked, even as he pressed his head to yield its weight into Ecthelion’s palm.

“Yes,” Ecthelion whispered, and leaned in to press a kiss to Elemmakil’s brow. “I am.”

Elemmakil’s eyes fluttered closed, and he made a quiet sound in the back of his throat. Ecthelion pushed all his misgivings aside...his self-reproach, his sorrows, his anger. He pulled Elemmakil’s face to his and kissed him, softly at first, and then with the hunger of a man who had been too long without sustenance.  Elemmakil’s arms came around him, and he could feel the solidity and substance in their grip. These were not the reedy limbs of the boy on the fountain, but a warrior’s solid strength. He sank into their grasp even as he returned it with his own. His own body, so long held in slumber by his unhappiness, remembered its yearnings, its needs, and came awake once more.  Beneath a smoke-filled sky, on an arid, blood-washed plain which had only just begun its cruel reaping, a note of purest joy was sounded, and in that moment, Ecthelion believed with all of his heart, and with all of his soul, that no matter what the morning brought, Evil could never truly hold sway over Good.

“Elemmakil?” he ventured.

“Yes?” Elemmakil’s answering whisper was husky and warm, carried on the current of his shallow, rapid breaths.

“Importune me for a little while longer.”

Elemmakil’s throaty chuckle and the wet heat of his mouth was the only reply that came, and the only reply that was necessary.